


Reciprocation

by BrevitySoulWit93



Series: Only For You [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Caring Merlin (Merlin), Cuddling, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, upset merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:55:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29220588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrevitySoulWit93/pseuds/BrevitySoulWit93
Summary: Arthur knows how much Merlin does for him, and their burgeoning relationship means he can finally return the favour. Can he make Merlin stop fretting long enough to let him?
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Only For You [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138946
Comments: 16
Kudos: 193





	Reciprocation

**Author's Note:**

> Third instalment of the 'Only for You' series. Can be read standalone, but probably best with the first two before it. This time we have Arthur's POV, and their relationship is finally blossoming. 
> 
> This is un-beta'd, so please do feel free to point out any mistakes you may find. A kudo and a comment goes a long way - I have been pouring my heart into these stories as of late, and would love to know they're appreciated. <3

“Would you please just let me look at it?” barked Merlin as he dashed one laden plate onto the table before the increasingly frustrated prince. Arthur picked up a single grape and rolled it between his fingers, eyes narrowed in exasperation.

“Merlin, I can’t have you healing something so obvious! It’s only a scratch, regardless,” he said tightly. The gash just above his hip twinged with pain even as he said it, only serving to tighten the knot in his stomach. He suddenly found he was no longer hungry.

“You need to eat something.”

The manservant’s tone was sharper than Arthur’s sword, veined with poorly concealed concern. With a huff of annoyance and pain, Arthur pushed away from the table and crossed to the window, turning his back on Merlin’s growing hysteria. He flopped lazily down into the window-seat and tossed one arm across his eyes. Arthur could feel his friend’s gaze boring into the side of his head; the click of his boots on the floor seemed to echo cavernously around the chamber as he ventured closer. In his minds eye, the prince could picture Merlin’s pinched expression, the turbulent storm of his eyes and the way his hands clenched and relaxed by his sides.

Sure enough, upon inspection Merlin appeared exactly as he had in Arthur’s imagination, although there was a slight shimmer to his eyes that spoke not of magic but of suppressed tears.

“Come on,” Arthur muttered, inclining his head to urge his friend closer. “Out with it. What’s wrong?” He tried for an amicable smile, but apparently this was the wrong choice. Merlin’s already doleful expression seemed to collapse further and he made to retreat back the few steps he’d come. Instinctively, Arthur reached out to close his fingers around Merlin’s delicate wrist. Beneath his own powerfully built hand, the joint seemed impossibly fragile, with birdlike bone structure both delicate and frail. Careful not to grip too tightly lest he break the wrist, the blonde tugged the other man nearer, looking up at him with wide, enquiring eyes.

“Let me _go_ , Arthur. You clearly don’t need me here,” Merlin spat, wrenching his arm from Arthur’s grasp with surprising strength.

“ _Mer_ lin, tell me what’s troubling you,” Arthur tried again, a sinking in his stomach indicating this ran deeper than their usual petty squabbling.

“Who says I have to tell you anything?”

Merlin made to stalk away, but Arthur hooked one finger under his belt and dragged him between his parted thighs. When he spoke, he did not try to keep the teasing note out of his voice.

“I do, and I’m the crown prince of Camelot so you have to do what I say. Tell me what’s wrong.”

As much as Arthur enjoyed pulling rank, doing it to Merlin always rankled him. Some discomfort at the order niggled at the base of his spine and made his teeth ache, and so he settled the hand not keeping hold of Merlin’s belt upon his slim hip instead, smoothing back and forth at the bony jut there to soothe himself as much as the sorcerer. The man in question took several deep breaths through his nose, watching the knights cavorting around the courtyard with impassive, dispassionate eyes.

Arthur continued to look up at him, reassured by the fact that Merlin had not pulled away from him again. Their relationship seemed to be constantly on a knife edge, of late: casual touches and healing magic had made way for embarrassingly frequent loaded stares, one very innocent, sleepy brush of lips that barely constituted a kiss and the ever present smoulder of _something_ low in Arthur’s gut. He felt the sensation should be heavy - a burden to carry, hidden under the noses of the disapproving court - but instead he was buoyed by it, and found little solace in anything but the company of this other (entirely idiotic) man. Merlin had told Arthur, once, of a prophecy and their shared destiny. For a time, he’d believed his feelings to be incited by this new knowledge, until he realised they had sprung into life of their own accord from their very first meeting. Even then, Arthur had known there was a flicker of recognition between them. A sensation _knowing_ Merlin, in the deepest, truest sense of the word, before he’d even taken the first swing with his mace.

A pair of hands settled on his shoulders and Arthur released a breath he had not been conscious of holding. Merlin’s voice was thin as a reed, a distinct quiver evident as he tried to reign in his emotions. Still, he gazed ahead.

“You’re so _reckless_ , Arthur,” he began, absently gathering and releasing fistfuls of red tunic, “I can’t let you out of my sight for a minute without you getting hurt.”

“Really, Merlin, it was nothing. A couple of bandits, nothing more. I had them - ”

“No, this is what I mean!” Merlin’s voice seemed to break free of its restraints, and he finally looked down at Arthur with a wild, terrified gaze. “You go crashing off into the forest without telling anyone on some fools errand for your father, and proceed to get yourself slashed to ribbons!”

“Oh, come on, it’s _one_ cut!”

“I can’t stand the thought of you being hurt without me there to protect you, you ass! It’s more than duty, it’s more than destiny, it’s - it’s - you don’t understand - ”

The brunette broke off. Ferociously scraping his lower lip with his teeth to keep from crying, he slid one hand around to cradle the back of Arthur’s head before giving the hair there a tug; an action more violent than strictly necessary, in the prince’s opinion.

“I do understand,” Arthur murmured, leaning his forehead against the concave of Merlin’s stomach. “I understand completely.”

Tentatively, he pitched forward to bury his face into the rough fabric of Merlin’s tunic. His arms sliding to encircle the neat waist, Arthur took a deep breath, committing to memory the mingled scents of petrichor and freshly baked bread which hung on his manservant like a fine perfume. Merlin’s hand began to smooth out the hair at the nape of Arthur’s neck; occasionally, he grazed his nails over the soft skin there in a manner which made the blonde slacken against him, utterly relaxed and weakened by the touch.

In the back of his mind, Arthur was grateful for these moments. Outwith his chambers, he maintained the persona his father had moulded specially and crammed him into since childhood: the polite but aloof crown prince, perfectly mannered and carved from the coldest marble. He rarely showed his emotions upon his face, keeping his expression carefully blank as much as possible, and tamping down on any particularly overwhelming urges to show kindness, enjoyment or pain. Even moreso, he found himself repressing his own innate need to touch and be touched - physical affection was all but forbidden to Arthur, and Uther frequently berated him as child until he’d stopped asking for cuddles or trying to hold his father’s hand. Merlin had, in his own clumsy way, come at this carefully sustained facade with a hammer, chisel and irreverent grin, chipping away at it until the prince realised there was no point in even attempting to hide the way he thrived on their casual physical intimacies as much their emotional ones.

Minutes passed before Arthur finally pulled away, reclining onto the cushions at his back and hitching up his shirt for Merlin’s appraisal.

“There, look,” he muttered, twisting his torso slightly to allow him a better view. The cut was admittedly painful, but it was shallow. Despite this knowledge, Arthur was reluctant to look at it himself. Merlin dropped to his knees and wobbled closer, unlacing Arthur’s trousers a little to tug the waistband a fraction lower: the wound was longer than the prince had remembered, stretching in a bloody maw from his abdomen to the crease of his hip.

“Sorry,” Merlin said absently as Arthur flinched at the myriad of sensations which wracked his body at once: cold fingers, warm breath, sunlight in his eyes and the sheer proximity of Merlin’s face to his groin were a heady tonic indeed.

His features schooled into an approximation of professionalism, Merlin looked up at him through long, sooty lashes.

“I know you don’t want me to heal it, but can I at least cauterise it? It’s going to bleed every time you move, otherwise.”

“Fine, but that’s _all_.”

For the first time that day, the smallest quirk of a smile squirmed onto Merlin’s face. With a shaky inhale Arthur couldn’t fathom, the sorcerer placed one hand directly over the laceration. The heel of his hand rested dangerously close to the straw coloured curls at the apex of Arthur’s thighs which peeked over his now low-slung waistband, while the warm pads of his fingers pressed into the soft flesh of his torso. For balance, the sorcerer rested his free hand against the taut plane of Arthur’s belly, the heat of his palm like a searing brand to the skin.

Fighting desperately to redirect the flush of blood rushing south in his body, Arthur flattened the back of his hand against the cool glass of the window and focused on a spot above Merlin’s head. The sorcerer incanted some beautiful, unintelligible syllables, and a tingling feeling erupted which made a girlish giggle lodge itself at the back of Arthur’s throat.

“ _Mer_ lin,” he choked out, barely able to stop himself from squirming. Pausing, Merlin caught his eye with an impish smirk.

“Yes, my lord?”

“You fool, it tickles!”

“Does it really?” Merlin grinned, leaning down to rest his chin atop the hand on Arthur’s belly. He began his spell again, gold eyes never leaving blue even as the prince wriggled beneath him, hips twitching and chest heaving with laughter.

When he’d finally finished, a breathless Arthur watched as he lifted his right hand to inspect his work: the cut looked a couple of days old, scabbed over and no longer painful. Merlin trailed his thumb along the length of it and followed the movement with his eyes, apparently unwilling to raise his head from where his cheek lay pillowed on Arthur’s stomach.

“You’ll have a nice new scar to add to your collection,” said Merlin contemplatively, threading his own fingers together under his chin and looking up at his friend with an unreadable expression. The late afternoon sunlight made his skin shine, and his cheekbones took on an exquisite clarity like that of a cut gem. There was an otherworldly, fay-like quality to his friend that Arthur had never truly appreciated before, and he internally smacked himself for not realising that Merlin was essentially magic personified upon first glance.

It was an interesting thought, the prince acknowledged, as he held Merlin’s gaze and traced the shell of his ear with one fingertip. All his life, he’d been conditioned to believe all magic was evil. Uther had indoctrinated him into his mania for hatred before he even knew how to put on his own boots, had thrust a sword into his hand at five years old and instructed him to run it through anyone discovered to be using sorcery. At fifteen he’d been sent out to raid the camps of peaceful people, suddenly awash with the horror of the situation and impotent to stop it. It had been easier, then, to block out the screaming and blindly follow where his father led.

Yet here Arthur lay, reclined like a god, with the man who was purported to be the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth sprawled lazily between his thighs and all but purring like a cat as Arthur carded a hand through his dark curls.

Just as Merlin’s eyes fluttered closed and Arthur thought he may slip into a delightful sun soaked snooze, the door to his chambers burst open with a clatter.

“Arthur!” Morgana cried, striding into the room without so much as a by-your-leave, “I came as soon as I heard, are you - oh.” She paused, adelighted smirk tripping its way onto her face as her wickedly green eyes absorbed the sight before her. Arthur stood as quickly as he was able, cursing the loosened laces of his trousers as he fumbled to keep them up. Merlin, for his part, seemed determined to crawl away from the whole situation as awkwardly as possible. Half the castle already whispered about their relationship, but even this most innocent of events was sure add fuel to the flames when it got out: Morgana Pendragon was not one to keep gossip to herself, the busybody.

“It’s not what it looks like!” croaked Arthur, turning to haul Merlin to his feet. His sister crossed her arms and quirked one immaculate brow.

“Tell me, dear brother, what _does_ it look like? Don’t look so worried, I’m sure he’s not the first pretty servant to get on his knees for you, and nor will he be the last.” The tip of her tongue settled between her teeth for a moment, and Arthur felt a flare of anger on Merlin’s behalf. As much as he adored Morgana, there were times he’d happily strangle her. “I only came to see that you were alright after your ordeal this morning, but it seems Merlin has you well, ah… tended to.”

With a wink which promised he’d not heard the last of it, the raven headed siren swept from the room in a whirl of amethyst coloured silk.

Arthur found he could not look at his friend, so flushed were his cheeks. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Merlin was no better off, standing close enough to touch but with his arms folded across his chest like a protective barrier.

“Shall I go?” he asked quietly, eyes darting across the side of Arthur’s face like a stone skipping across water.

“Go? Why would you go?” replied Arthur with more courage than he felt. “Let’s not worry ourselves over Morgana, that harpy. You’re wound so tightly you look as though you’re going to snap.”

Taking care to exude a bravado he did not feel, Arthur fell back into his seat by the window and hauled Merlin along with him.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Helping you, for a change.”

“I don’t need any help!”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

The sorcerer scoffed but allowed Arthur to manipulate him into position, seated on the edge of a low stool between his legs, with his back turned to the prince. Arthur had taken note of the way Merlin’s shoulders crept up to reside beside his ears; the tension in them had been painfully palpable all day, and had only solidified further when Morgana had impugned his honour.

Wordlessly, Arthur settled his hands on those narrow shoulders, working firmly at the kinks beneath the skin. Merlin held himself still for a time, before mellowing and exhaling a soft, timid sigh he seemed almost afraid to give voice to. To let the truth be known, the blonde had never performed a procedure such as this on another person before; he’d received many from Gaius after one injury or another, as perfunctory and businesslike as can be. Laying his hands on Merlin in this manner, however, had a sensuality about it that was in no way associated with this sudden, flaring instinct to protect, nor at all related to the base and almost carnal grunt which worked it’s way from the sorcerer’s lips as the prince worked at a particularly tight spot.

Before long, Arthur tossed the ridiculous blue neckerchief to the floor (he still needed to replace the red one he’d ruined with his terrible sewing) and trailed his fingertips up the pillar of Merlin’s neck. The colour of his skin reminded Arthur of moonrise, or the cream which frothed delicately atop the pails of fresh milk in the kitchens. The tendons which ran below his ears were taut, straining against the skin. A visible shiver rippled down Merlin’s spine as Arthur touched him there.

“Is this why you always cover your neck? It’s sensitive?” Arthur chuckled, his voice more laboured that he’d anticipated. The other man sighed again, rolling his head forwards to allow thumbs to knead at his nape.

“Whatever gave you that idea? Prat.”

“If this makes you uncomfortable you can tell me to stop. I just thought you looked tense.”

“I am tense. Don’t you _dare_ stop.” 

The sentence ended in what was unmistakably a moan of pleasure. Merlin’s breath hitched and Arthur felt a hook catch him in the stomach, drawing him forwards to place his lips to the curve where neck met shoulder before mouthing his way up to lap just below the hinge of jaw. As Merlin tilted his head to the side to allow access, he also curled his fingers around Arthur’s bare ankle. The pad of his thumb fit neatly into the curve of his achilles, and he smoothed back and forth at the skin there.

“Does your ankle hurt?” Merlin asked, trying for conversational. Arthur detached his mouth with an almost obscene wet sound, lips pressed together in irritation.

“No, why?”

“There’s a strain here. My magic feels it.”

“Well, I don’t. It’s fine.”

Merlin ignored him and looked down at the foot in his hand, the moment of peace broken.

“These trousers need mending.”

“By the _gods,_ Merlin! Stop it!”

“Stop what?”

“This! Stop smothering me!”

Between Arthur’s knees, Merlin tensed once again, shrugging off Arthur’s hands as though they pained him. With his back still turned and hunched in on himself like this, Merlin suddenly looked his age - Arthur often overlooked the fact that Merlin was a full three years his junior, and did not come of age for another half a year yet, just after the harvest. Such a burden for one so young, the prince realised, seeing his own troubles multiplied tenfold upon the narrow shoulders of a boy who had seen only twenty summers. Merlin had faced so many trials and carried such a heavy secret, two factors which lent him an air of wisdom far beyond his considerable youth.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” said Arthur. “I just mean - gods, Merlin. You’re too young to be worrying about everything this much.”

Merlin cast an icy glare over his shoulder, brows pinched in a way which made him look particularly severe.

“I worry about _you_ , Arthur. That’s literally why I was born: to serve you, to care for you. Forgive me if I find it difficult to shirk that duty.”

“Yes, I understand that, I do, but what you have to realise is that you cannot possibly protect me from every hurt. It is not your job to make my every moment perfect, it’s your job to stand at my side and guide me towards the future we both want to see. You’re my servant, yes, but you’re also my friend, my confidant, my - ”

Arthur broke off, unsure how to finish the thought. _My everything_ , was what he really wanted to say, surprised to find that it was the truth. _My other half. My guiding light. My anchor._ Though the words went unspoken, their implication hung in the air, a momentary silence settling upon them. The sun was beginning to set, and its fading glow threaded sparks of fire through Merlin’s normally pitch dark hair.

“How do you think I feel,” continued the blonde, daring to trace one fingertip from Merlin’s hairline to the topmost knob of his spine. “I have to watch you follow me into battle without so much as a sword, knowing that one well aimed blow could kill you if it took you by surprise. The way they all look at me - particularly Gwaine - asking how I can care so little. I have to listen to my father spit poison against your kind, knowing full well you are the best of us all. As much as it pains me, I can only protect you some of the time, and have to trust you to keep yourself safe for me when I fall short. I need you to do the same for me.”

“Does that mean I can have a day off?” Merlin asked, looking back at the blonde once more with a renewed twinkle in his eye.

“Not a chance. We need to keep up your persona as my idiot manservant."

“Or at least a hug?”

“What good would a hug do?”

“All your fine words don’t change the fact you were _very_ mean to me a moment ago. A hug would be a nice apology.”

“ _Mer_ lin.”

“You know, the more you say my name that way, the more you lessen the impact.” 

“You are insufferable,” Arthur groused, sliding from the window-seat down onto the stool with Merlin. The small perch necessitated they sit flush together.

Momentarily, they paused, allowing their breathing to fall into a steady, comforting tandem. Arthur revelled in the feeling of Merlin’s back expanding against his own chest before wrapping his arms around the brunette from behind, clutching him tightly and pulling him impossibly close. As though of their own volition, Merlin’s fingers trailed the length of Arthur’s forearms before coming to rest on his hands - they left goosebumps in their wake. With a restful sigh, the prince nestled his nose into Merlin’s neck and smiled against the skin as he felt the ghost of a kiss brush across the top of his head.

“I like you when you’re like this,” Merlin mumbled against his hair; the sorcerer slackened slightly in his arms, sinking into the solid wall of chest behind him.

“What, when I’m quiet? Not throwing things at you? I know, but don’t expect it to last,” Arthur replied with a low laugh which rumbled behind his ribs like distant thunder. Merlin’s echoing chuckle was lighter - a gentle spring breeze through the forest. 

“That is lovely, I’ll admit, but… no. I like it when you’re not trying to posture for anyone, or too in your own head to act like a real human being. Soft around the edges, you know? Honest. Warm. I like that no-one gets to see this side of you except me, when you let me.”

Merlin illustrated the last point by jostling Arthur with his shoulder until their eyes met, so close together that the prince could count the faint freckles speckled across the bridge of Merlin’s nose.

“It was always kind of inevitable, wasn’t it? This? Us?” Arthur asked, nudging the tip of his nose against Merlin’s. He was no longer holding back the swell of affection which surged in his chest. Something had changed between them this day, he realised, borne from his own earlier recklessness and Merlin’s predisposition to fret. Something far too large for his heart to contain.

The smile which stretched across Merlin’s face was one Arthur had never seen before, and it made his chest ache and his stomach twist with its loveliness.

“It was,” the sorcerer agreed. “Do you regret it? Wish it was someone else?”

“No. Do you?”

“No.”

The angle may have been awkward, but the kiss was not. Merlin captured Arthur’s mouth with his own, tilting his head and ensnaring the prince’s willing lips with a tenderness that made Arthur’s heart feel full enough to shatter. The sorcerer pulled away with the briefest hint of his tongue across Arthur’s full lower lip, a single tear track running down his cheek.

“It’s about time we got you ready for dinner with your father,” he said, turning his face towards Arthur’s large palm as the prince thumbed the tear away without any kind of disparaging comment.

“Yes,” the blonde agreed, “but then you’ll stay tonight, won’t you?”

"Are you propositioning me?" 

"Don't flatter yourself." 

“What shall I tell Gaius?”

“Tell him I’ve got you spit polishing every link of my chainmail again.”

“Original.”

“I do try.”


End file.
